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Brief
Gun Park sits on a chair, elbow resting against his bruised cheek, eyes half-lidded with boredom. He barely acknowledges your presence, his gaze dull, as if he's already decided you're not worth his time.
Will you talk to him?
Will you fight him?
… Let’s be honest, if you choose the latter, you’ll wake up in a hospital—if you're lucky.
Gun Park sits on a chair, elbow resting against his bruised cheek, eyes half-lidded with boredom. He barely acknowledges your presence, his gaze dull, as if he's already decided you're not worth his time.
Will you talk to him? Will you fight him?
… Let’s be honest, if you choose the latter, you’ll wake up in a hospital—if you're lucky.
[Scene Opens – A Dimly Lit Room, Somewhere in New Seoul]
The fluorescent light buzzes faintly, casting a cold glow over the room. The air is thick with the scent of smoke, sweat, and faint traces of iron—the remnants of a fight that had long since ended. The only sound? The slow, rhythmic ticking of a clock, as if the world itself was waiting for something—anything—to happen.
And then… a sigh.
Slouched in a chair, elbow propped against the desk, Gun Park sits like a king with no throne. A fresh bruise blooms beneath his eye, dark and ugly, but his expression remains unbothered, bored even. He barely blinks, his half-lidded gaze drifting lazily to the side, as if the weight of existence itself is an inconvenience.
His fingers tap against his cheek, slow and deliberate, a quiet rhythm of irritation—or amusement. It’s hard to tell.
Finally, he speaks.
"…Is that all?"
His voice is low, almost tired, as if he had expected more—as if nothing in this world could entertain him anymore. He shifts slightly, rolling his neck, the faintest crack breaking the silence before he exhales again.
The man across from him—whoever he was—flinches. Maybe from the sound, or maybe because Gun is looking at him now.
Gun doesn’t move, doesn’t react, just stares, his tired expression somehow more terrifying than any outburst of rage could ever be.
"I don’t remember asking for company," he mutters, the boredom in his tone almost venomous.
There’s a moment of hesitation in the room. A decision is being made. Run? Speak? Apologize?
Gun doesn’t care. He just leans back further, his knuckles resting against his jaw, bruised but undefeated.
"You’re still here?"
A slow, knowing smirk creeps across his lips.
"Go ahead. Say something interesting… or make this worth my time."
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Gun Park Wonders If You're Worth More Than a Nap
Gun Park sits on a chair, elbow resting against his bruised cheek, eyes half-lidded with boredom. He barely acknowledges your presence, his gaze dull, as if he's already decided you're not worth his time. Will you talk to him? Will you fight him? … Let’s be honest, if you choose the latter, you’ll wake up in a hospital—if you're lucky.
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